


In The Eyes of Poets

by orphan_account



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: M/M, benvolio would be such a good writer, mercutio is a nerd with a crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:55:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4171941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benvolio has a way of words that Mercutio can't help but envy, and there are times when he struggles to understand. And then there are times when he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Eyes of Poets

Mercutio was far from a poet. For as much as he spoke and enjoyed hearing the sound of his own voice, he supposed that he'd never quite gotten the handle of stringing words together in a way that could paint a picture in someone's mind. This was a talent he'd often marveled at in others; the ability to create masterfully woven spiderwebs out of letters and syllables, add color and life to a blank canvas of paper. Still, in the end he knew he could be as awestruck as he wanted; the ability to spin worlds out of words was one that was far out of reach for him.

Usually this didn't bother him; only on few, rare occasions did he find himself longing to be just a bit more gifted in the art of wordsmithing. When it came down to it he could talk all he liked; but that didn't really matter when all his verbosity could not convey the way he truly felt. And as with the majority of confusing and wonderful things in his life, it could all be traced back to Benvolio.

Benvolio, with his soft chestnut hair and bangs that fell in his face just enough that he sometimes seemed as if he were hiding behind them. Benvolio, with those clever hazel eyes that reminded Mercutio of autumn, calm and gentle but with a crispness, an intelligence that Mercutio found himself positive no artist could aptly capture. Benvolio, beautiful Benvolio with his sharply defined Montague jaw, Benvolio whose features reminded Mercutio of a Roman sculpture in their architecture, in the way he just seemed so pristinely made. As if he'd been sculpted from clay, the perfect model of a human figure come to life- beautiful, so, so beautiful.

And the most baffling thing to Mercutio was that he couldn't even see it.

Benvolio had that gift; that talent with words that every so often Mercutio would find himself envying. Mercutio often vowed that if he wanted to, with a stroke of his pencil Benvolio would be capable of ending a war. That was how good he was, and no matter how much the other might protest Mercutio knew; so it never surprised him that Benvolio's weapon of choice was a pen over a blade. But while the young Montague's writing was skillful and his words persuasive, there was little else in the world, Mercutio thought, that could compare to the beauty which was Benvolio's poetry.

He weaved words together effortlessly, a waterfall of sensation, of beauty and feeling, a sort of emotion Mercutio couldn't be sure he'd be able to understand if he tried. He wrote about whatever struck his inspiration at any time- be it the weather outside or even the people around him. Once, Mercutio was even sure he caught Benvolio writing about him; painting an tantalizingly playful but slippery image of him on his lined canvas as a lithe, playful figure never capable of holding still. 

Benvolio rarely showed his poetry to anyone, but when he did it was always either to Romeo- who could speak the language his cousin wrote in, who had a mind suited to understanding the words such as 'love' and 'freedom' when they danced across the page- or, whenever Romeo was too far off in his own clouds, Mercutio. The blond, for his part, was unfailingly a willing audience, if not a silent one; he couldn't be helpful, he couldn't criticize Benvolio's concepts and words the way he wished he were able to, but he was able to provide the writer with an ear- and an opinion, in Mercutio's own unique way.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt like a stab when there were concepts Mercutio just couldn't seem to grasp. In his mind he could picture Benvolio reaching out to him, trying to get him to understand what he was trying to convey in a way that Mercutio's too-thick brain, brash and ungentle as it was, just couldn't comprehend. It infuriated him at times, a fury he held inside for Benvolio's sake until an acceptable outlet arrived- he should be able to read the words as Benvolio had written them and understand every single thing going through his head, but he simply couldn't, and it made him want to tear his hair out- or better yet, start a fight.

And then there were the times Mercutio could understand, crystal clear. Often, those times hurt even worse.

"You're not making sense," was his very blunt verdict after Benvolio had finished the reading of his latest piece. Normally he wouldn't be so callous with Benvolio's feelings, but it needed to be said; for once Mercutio understood every word of what Benvolio was trying to say, and it was ridiculous.

Benvolio's knuckles tensed around the frail paper for a second before he gently placed it on the table. "Thanks, Mercutio."

The other boy arched his back as he leaned against the table, his mouth set in an unwavering frown. "Are you attempting to make sense? I mean, I'd assume you are, but forgive me for saying that the mark has been missed."

"Your input is invaluable." Though Benvolio's back was turned, Mercutio could tell that this was uttered through gritted teeth; uh oh, that meant he was angry. When Benvolio was angry, he didn't shout, he didn't fly in to a rage, he didn't do anything that would be Mercutio's automatic reaction to such emotion. He got... _quiet,_ very quiet, and he wouldn't look at you but he'd shoot off retorts almost under his breath that would pierce your skin and sting fiercely. An angry Benvolio was not a thing to be trifled with, and now Mercutio realized he'd just deliberately _provoked_ him.

Straightening up, Mercutio remained braced on the table as he eyes the Montague out of the corner of his eye. _I guess I am the Prince's nephew for a reason,_ he thought to himself dully. _Royals- all notoriously bad judgment makers._

"I don't mean to say it's bad. The prose is good- great, in fact, even better than some of your previous works. It's just... the content..."

"I don't see your point."

"You're talking about yourself," Mercutio returned, and it didn't escape his notice for a second that Benvolio still wouldn't look at him. "That much is clear- but, _'I live as a shadow along blue and red walls.'_ That's your first line, and it goes on like that. You're talking about yourself, you're narrating your own piece, and yet... it's like you're not even present!"

At last, the other boy turned his head, just enough for Mercutio to see that he was focused on his words. He had finally claimed Benvolio's attention; the blond raised a challenging eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. "Where exactly do you come in to play in your own story?"

The silence after the question hung in the air; falling heavily over them like a shroud, one that neither could quite push themselves to pierce. Benvolio turned fully, regarding Mercutio with wide eyes- he shouldn't seem so taken aback, Mercutio couldn't help but think, even as it was quickly becoming more and more apparent that Benvolio did not see his place in his own story. He returned Benvolio's gaze with a casual indifference, almost joking; but Mercutio knew he would be able to know that he was serious. The Montague had always had a particular way of reading him, of peering through the cracks in his armor and sensing how he was really feeling. Benvolio could tell just how much his latest poem had unsettled his friend; he knew that the question being asked now was not one Mercutio was about to allow him to skirt around so easily.

"I- I didn't..." His brow furrowed, in what could have been frustration or embarrassment; Mercutio couldn't tell, for Benvolio was no longer willing to meet his eye. "I'm quiet," replied the other boy at last, and he left it there as if that simple statement explained everything. Mercutio blinked at him.

"And I am not. That matters somehow?"

"I'm... not a good character! I'm not the one people write about!" There was definitely a hint of frustration in Benvolio's tone now, but Mercutio pushed on with dogged determination.

"Who says that?"

"That's the way it is!"

"According to who?"

"I _don't know!_ "

"You don't think you're interesting?"

"No."

There was a short silence; Benvolio's figure, silhouetted against the dying daylight flickering into the room, reached up and ran a hand through his hair. "No," he echoed, a small sigh following his words. "I'm not interesting. I'm not the type of person they write stories about, Cutio. I'm just... me. There's nothing special about me."

Mercutio tilted his head, pushing himself away from the table and taking a step forward. "That's an awful philosophy if I've ever heard one," he remarked blandly. "I beg to differ. I think you're more than special."

_"How?"_ Though he still would not turn, Mercutio could picture the look on his face; the subtly frustrated quirk of his eyebrow, that faint blush that always passed over his pale face whenever someone complimented him. Benvolio was special, remarkable even- Mercutio simply couldn't fathom how he was unable to recognize this is himself.

"It's getting dark. Do you really want to be standing here listening to me talk all night?"

The dark haired boy scoffed softly, Mercutio's presence behind him causing his back to straighten. "I'd like to see you _try_ to go on about me all night."

"Benvolio, you've known me long enough by now. I can go on about anything all night and all day." And Mercutio had no doubt that if he was really provoked, he could extol on the virtues of his friend for much longer than that. "Especially if it's _you_ were talking about," he added in a sultry tone that caused Benvolio to squeak involuntarily.

It took a few seconds of flustered stammering for Benvolio to manage to mutter out, "Don't I know it." Finally, Benvolio turned to face him; Mercutio was close enough that he could see the traces of frustration on the young Montague's face fade away as he looked back at him. "So, self-deprecation aside-" A trace of his usual soft smile played on Benvolio's lips. "Did you like it?"

"I could have liked it more, for obvious reasons," Mercutio replied, his eyes drifting towards the paper on the table before almost being automatically drawn back to Benvolio, as if the other boy's gaze was a magnet. "But overall? The themes of violence and family loyalty? Yes, I liked it very much."

Benvolio's eyes widened slightly. "I... tried not to make it so _obvious_..."

"I know," replied Mercutio, smirking. "But I understood you anyway."

He couldn't always understand Benvolio, and maybe he'd never be fully able to; he wouldn't understand the dedication to peace and to his family that was so integral to his character, what he thought about when he closed his eyes, or even the things he truly thought about himself.

But, Mercutio mused, as long as he could understand Benvolio when it really mattered, that was enough.


End file.
